GI Brides (85 page)

The two did not talk much about these things, but now and again a word would pass between them that showed the trend of their thoughts, and a beautiful bond of sympathy grew sweet and strong between father and daughter.

There were several changes in the Red Cross class. Of course, Anne Houghton was no longer there, and Blythe Bonniwell had been gone even longer from her place beside the window where Mrs. Blake usually sat.

Mrs. Blake was still there, as quiet as ever, but very friendly with all the ladies. She was counted an old member now, and a certain halo shone above her from her friendship with the departed Blythe. Everybody respected the Bonniwells, especially now that there was no Anne Houghton to disparage her and sneer at the woman with whom she had been friendly.

For Anne Houghton was no longer a poor relative in a stingy household. She was young Mrs. Dan Seavers, the wife of the handsome new officer at the camp, and she was engaged in arrogantly feeling her way into a new group and making an impression that would serve her as long as she stayed in the place. But neither was she mourned in the Red Cross class she had left behind her, and the place seemed far more friendly since she had left. People suddenly began to know that the quiet, despised Mrs. Blake was a most useful and helpful member of the class, for she could not only do well almost everything that had to be done, but she was quite willing to show them the best and swiftest ways to do it. Mrs. Felton was one of the first women to recognize this. Moreover, it turned out that it was through Mrs. Blake that the latest and most accurate news of how Mrs. Bonniwell was progressing could be learned, for she was in daily contact with Blythe, and that added to their respect for Mrs. Blake. She seemed to be one who was a regular friend at the Bonniwell house, and so it was through Mrs. Blake that the Red Cross finally sent gorgeous flowers to Blythe when it was learned that her mother was decidedly on the mend, although it might be months before she could hope to be around again, as in the past.

But in the meantime, most amazing things were going forward on the “home front,” as Blythe called heir home life. The Bonniwell family were living as a family in a simple, home-life way, as they had not done since the years when Blythe was a little girl and they used to gather at night around her little crib to hear her say her nightly prayer. But that was years ago, Blythe would have told you, and she scarcely remembered it herself. There hadn’t been any gatherings for prayer in that household since.

But one night, the night that Mrs. Bonniwell was first allowed to sit up against her pillows for five minutes before she went to her night’s sleep, the most unexpected change came about in that home.

The five minutes were up, and Blythe had rearranged the pillows for the night. The father was sitting in the big chair near the bed, as he usually sat while the mother was dropping off to sleep. And now Blythe was putting away a few things. Then suddenly the father’s voice broke the quiet:

“I’m going to read a few words, Alice. Listen. I think they will help you to sleep. Call them a pillow for your head.”

And then his voice dropped pleasantly into words they all knew well, but hadn’t been thinking about of late years.

Blythe had softly settled down in a chair near the door as soon as she recognized what her father was reading, and she watched the quiet face of her mother and wondered how she would take this. But then, she knew, of course, she would accept it in her sweet gracious manner just as she took her orange juice or glass of milk, something beautiful done for her because they loved her, something in perfect harmony with a lovely life.

And then suddenly, even Blythe was surprised, for her father bowed his head, and in the same gentle tone that he would have spoken to her mother or herself he said, “Oh Lord, we do feel to thank Thee tonight that we have passed a blessed milestone on the way toward the recovery of our dear mother, and we know that it has been in answer to our prayers that Thou art bringing health and strength back to our beloved one. We thank Thee for the verses we have read, precious promises that Thou hast made good to us. We ask Thee to help us henceforth to live a life that is pleasing to Thee, and that shall give glory to Thy name. Thank You, dear Lord. Amen.”

There was an instant of silence, and then Blythe softly slipped from her chair and turned out all but the small night-light as usual. But before she left the room she glanced at her mother to see if she was entirely comfortable, and she caught the vision of her mother’s eyes opening, looking full at her husband, and her wan face was wreathed in a lovely smile. Blythe’s heart leaped up with joy. Mother not only had not minded, she had thought it beautiful! Could any joy be more desired just now than this?

And then she saw her father’s hand reach out and take his wife’s frail hand in a close warm clasp, and Blythe slipped away, wishing there were some way she might tell Charlie about it all, it was so wonderful. Her mother and father’s love story! Charlie would understand and love it, too. Would it be too late in heaven to find pleasure in talking over the beautiful things of the earth that had been left behind?

That night before she slept Blythe wrote another letter to Charlie, to add to the little pile in a lovely leather box that she kept locked and hidden away in a locked drawer of her desk. She liked to pretend to herself as she wrote, that these letters were going to Charlie on the next mail, although she knew that these were no letters for the eye of a censor. They were about intimate family affairs and must be held with a number of other precious confidences to talk over with Charlie in case he ever came back to claim them. These letters in the box were pieces of her own heart that she was putting in permanent form to read over perhaps in the years to come, when the mystery of death had been solved, or when she no longer could even hope that Charlie would come back to her on this earth.

So tonight she wrote a tender letter that was like painting a masterly portrait of her parents, with all the soft lights and shadows of the years in their faces, culminating in that few moments with the blessed words on the air, and the bowed heads, and that wonderful humble grateful prayer, like a golden atmosphere of praise sifting into the quiet evening silence. She painted it with pigments taken from her heart life, showing even the divine reflection that had come into her father’s face and glowed like a light in the darkened room while he was reading and praying. Charlie hadn’t known that father and mother through the years, and she wanted him to know them and understand them.

So she wrote her letter and locked it in the secret box, and then she knelt to thank God for that little holy time before her mother slept.

And in the room where Mr. Bonniwell sat long beside the bed with his wife’s frail hand lying softly in his, it may be that God was there speaking to hearts that were tender and were thinking of Him.

A
ll day the thunder of battle had been raging. There had been no letup from sickly gray dawning to the terrifying set of sun. A bright brass sun, trying to set in the normal way through putrid black and green and purple snarls of clouds, the sky heavily frowning to a black night and shaking a warning head at a cool slice of silver moon that occasionally gave a fearsome glance between the tattered clouds, just long enough to suggest what a night might be if peace were once restored. Was this sunset accomplished at the instigation of the enemy?

The enemy had brought fresh troops across that little winding river. Where did they get so many? Word had come from time to time through their intrepid informer that there was to be no rest that night. More troops were coming all the time. The darkness was making it possible for them to come in droves. There appeared to be endless numbers. The enemy had determined to hold this location, and the road to which it was the key, at all costs. And the costs would be plenty on both sides.

Hour after hour the intelligence continued to come, warnings of the next enemy move.

“That fellow’s a wiz,” Walter heard his captain say in a low tone to a fellow officer in a momentary lull of fighting. “I don’t see how he stands it. He’s been on alert since midnight last night. By all the rules of health he should have been dead long ago.”

“Who is it? Some fellow you know?”

“I think they call him Charlie, though we’re not sure. He never comes out for us to see.”

“But how does he manage to get his intelligence across the enemy line to you?”

“He has three points of contact. Two are up in tall trees, and when he can’t give information from one treetop or the other, he gives a flash from that far mountain over beyond, or speaks it over a telephone contraption down in his foxhole, some contrivance of his own. No one knows exactly but himself, perhaps. Mostly I guess he stays in that foxhole all day, possibly altering its location from day to day, sometimes almost under the feet of the enemy.”

“But what does he live on? Surely the enemy does not feed him?”

“No, I think he took a lot of those pill-foods, vitamins and the like, with him. Now and then they say he gets across to our own camp in the night when things are quiet probably, but always on the double quick to get back before he can be discovered. But he’s been going a long stretch of hours this time, and scarcely a minute when there wasn’t some news of some sort. After all, he’s human, and man can’t stand everything. But I understand he volunteered for this and expected to die when he came in. A pity a man like that has to be lost to the world because of these dirty dogs of enemies. But he’s clever all right. Nearly all his means of service are his own device, and if he can’t get us word by one method he’ll find another. But he’ll get to the end pretty soon. If all the hints he’s given us today come true, this night will almost see the finish, of this engagement at least. He says the enemy is determined to hold this point at all risks, and
we’ll
have to have reinforcements ourselves if the enemy continues to bring new troops. We
must win
this location! And Charlie can’t continue to stand up in a tree getting news if a moon like that looks over a cloud for even only a second at a time, without getting caught by some sniper. Sometime soon the intelligence will cease, and we’ll have to go on our own, and that will be good-bye for Charlie! But there’s no doubt about it, we wouldn’t have won all we have in this sector if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s magnificent work.”

Walter moved quietly on in the darkness, his heart swelling with pride at what his captain had said of Charlie. Walter had been convinced for some days that the work that was being done out there somewhere between the enemy and their own men was Charlie’s work, but this was the first time that he had heard the fact openly acknowledged. So, his captain had looked up the old friend from the hometown, after all, but he hadn’t told him. Probably wasn’t sure but he, Walter, might lose his head and go out after Charlie and give him away, perhaps. But there was a warm feeling around Walter’s heart as he thought that his captain was acknowledging the worth of his hero, too. And now, if anything happened to Charlie, and the intelligence should suddenly cease, he, Walter, would search among the dead most carefully for his beloved idol.

That night as the firing began again and the young soldier listened to the orders given, he knew that the worst was on its way, and if Charlie would ever need his help, it would likely be tonight.

The fighting was bitter indeed, and grew worse as the darkness drew on. Company after company of enemy troopers poured into the enemy ranks. There came planes, and other instruments of warfare, and now and again as Walter’s duties led him back to the captain’s tent he found that everything was happening as had been told them by Charlie that it would happen. Charlie was doing great work.

“God, be with him,” he prayed in his heart continually. “If he is in peril, protect him; if he is weary with the long battle, give him strength; and if he needs a helper, send me, please, Father God.”

On into the night they went, till it seemed the morning would never come. Black night everywhere, for the moon had gone its way now, and the clouds were folded across till scarcely a star dared glisten through the murky darkness of smoke and fire and death. It must be that the angels mourned as they looked down upon that night of carnage.

The firing had been incessant, the fight fierce on every hand. The dead were everywhere, and no man had time for rest. This was a battle to the death.

Walter had been everywhere, doing his duty without a thought of self or fear, and his heart was filled with prayer. “Oh God, keep Charlie.”

Perhaps the captain understood how he felt and kept him busy. Now and again came messages, signals from treetops or the underground. Walter was waiting for a message from the captain to be passed on to his major when the word came, “Impossible to hold outlooks longer. Tanks are uprooting trees. Look out for 246. Coming down.”

Walter’s heart began to tremble.

“Oh, God, aren’t You going to let him get through? Aren’t You going to keep Your promise?”

He was praying so hard that unconsciously he had closed his eyes and bowed his head. His captain looked at him curiously, almost reverently, and a shade of pity went over his face. Then Walter looked up and caught his captain’s glance.